Only 21 days until NaNoWriMo kicks off. I'm pencilling myself in for a minor panic attack over my plot sometime next week. Actually, it's not as bad as all that. I've decided to recycle a few parts from the discarded drafts of The Warp-Weaver's Legacy and use them for Fenlock's piece of the book.
I had a weird dream the other night where Carrie signed me up to be in a play. The character I was playing only had a few lines but spent the entire play in the bathtub, popping up out of the suds as needed. I think it stems from a scene in one of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy books where the captain of the B-ark is similarly afflicted. It was much less disturbing than the dream I had later that night, where I was swimming and red wasps attacked me every time I surfaced.
The Big E wedding went off without a hitch. Or so I thought. The smoke from a thousand cigarettes irritated Carrie's sinuses and aggrivated the infection she hadn't quite gotten over. It figures that she'd be getting sick the same time I'm finally feeling better.